


if carrie and miranda had ever got it on

by portions_forfox



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: College AU, F/F, Femslash, Genderswap, kmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lipstick lesbians (<i>n.</i>): they generally enjoy fashion, flowers, perfume, sex and the city, lingerie, and (gasp!) passionate sex with women.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if carrie and miranda had ever got it on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theviolonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/gifts).



> for theviolonist's prompt on the kinkmeme!

Louisa is staring out the window again.

“Hey,” says Harriet, and she darts a glance over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, Lou.” A quick wave of the hand in front of Louisa’s face and she looks over, dazed.

“Wassa matter,” Harry asks, and it kind of sucks, doesn’t it, that her mum was so meticulous with driving lessons back in secondary school (“Harriet Styles, I won’t have you driving to uni like one of those...those... _madmen_.” “ _Madmen_ , Mum? Really? You couldn’t come up with a better word than _madmen_?” “Oh, hush.”) because if that weren’t the case then she’d have no problem taking her eyes off the road for a moment to look straight across at Louisa. But alas, her mother was a hoverer, and alas, she wasn’t an idiot, so alas, she had to listen and not watch and keep her eyes on the road.

“ ’S nothing,” says Louisa, which, no. It’s not.

Harry makes a scoffing sound in the back of her throat and tosses skeptic eyes Louisa’s way (then back at the road again, because, well). “Sure,” she agrees in a tone which fully suggests she does not agree. “It’s nothing.”

Harry allows one more moment of pregnant silence to fill up the space of the car before she bursts out with,

“C’mon Lou, you know I hate when you go all quiet on me. It’s unnatural, like—like, I don’t know, the notion that a cock inside a vagina could be a pleasurable experience. It’s—it’s just _weird_ , okay? So just, just like—”

“But that’s the _thing_ , isn’t it!” Louisa suddenly cuts in, shifting away from the windowsill to properly _angst_ at Harry. (Is angst a verb now? Is that right? Harry can’t decide, she’s too busy properly switching on her turn signal.)

“Hm?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“The _thing_. Cock. In vagina. We don’t like that, do we.”

And maybe it’s true that in Louisa’s obviously distressed state of mind now is about the least appropriate time for a tiny grin to tug up the corners of Harry’s lips. Nevertheless, she flicks a teasing smile Louisa’s way, then leans closer to the window-shield so as to turn with precision. “Well,” she answers, “considering last night, and the night before, and the night _before_ , I should think that, no. We don’t."

Louisa rolls her eyes a bit. Huffs, by tossing her body moodily back into her seat. Then she leans up again, agitated. “That. That’s the thing.”

“Not liking cock? That’s the thing?”

“ _Yes_!” Lou heaves, eyes wide. “We only just found this out, like...well, like a couple months ago when uni started! And now we’re going home for Christmas break, to _your_ mum’s house, and _my_ mum’s coming and just—they don’t have a _clue_ , Harry! I just—” She lets out an irritated breath through her nose. “How can you be so—so _calm_ about all this?”

Harry shrugs (turns left, shifts the stick). “Dunno. I've gone by ‘Harry’ since I was three though, Lou. I don’t suspect my mum’ll be all that surprised.” She sighs a bit, then adds, “My mum’s not a homophobe, Louisa.” As though suddenly realizing something, she gets the first trace of any worry on her face since the whole ordeal began. “Is _yours_?” she asks, incredulous.

“What? No, she’s—she’s fine, it’s just...” Louisa rests an elbow on the handle, juts her chin into her fist and stares out the window again. ( _Brooding_ , Harry sighs to herself. _Brooding again_.) “I’m not like you, Harry. I’m not that...comfortable with myself. And I like heels and I like clothes and I like lipstick and I’m not—”

“A dyke?” Harry cuts in (and yeah, yeah maybe it’s true she’s all right with herself, maybe it’s true she doesn’t really give a fuck what people think, but. She gives a fuck what Louisa thinks. So there’s—there’s some bitterness there.)

Louisa starts backpedaling immediately. “No—no, no I didn’t mean that at all, Harry. I’m sorry, that’s not—I mean, you’ve slept with men, right?”

“So’ve you.”

“Yeah, and it was...”

“Gross.”

“Yeah.” (And now Louisa giggles and despite Harry’s best efforts, despite her excellent training and everything her mother taught her, she can’t help but look over at Louisa, and smile. She’s got that kind of giggle.)

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says, brushing Louisa’s arm with her fingers. “It will.”

 

 

Dinner isn’t awkward, per se, but it isn’t quite a party, either. (Which, Harry thinks, might not be the best analogy, considering at all the parties she’s been to thus far she hasn’t _talked_ so much as made out with Louisa in the corner. That’s even how they met.) Everyone is warm and cordial, and Anne is positively beaming to see Harry again after so long (“My little baby all grown up!” she observes, trite and wonderful as always.)

They manage to field the expected questions _Where did the two of you meet_ and _What classes are you in?_ and _My, how quickly you’ve become good friends._ And then of course the dreaded, _Who are you dating?_ (And here’s where the funny thing comes in: alone in the car, it’s all _HARRY WHAT THE FLYING FUCK ARE WE GOING TO DO_ and _HARRY LET’S JUST NOT GO OK_ and _OH MY GOD HARRY WHAT IF THEY ASK WHO OUR BOYFRIENDS ARE_ , but once they’re there Louisa is her charming lovely self again, funny and bright and the life of the party (Party. Dinner. Whatever.) She’s like that, Louisa. A good actress.) And Harry stares straight ahead at a painting located over Mrs. Tomlinson’s left shoulder and Louisa smiles sweetly and answers, “No one, really.”

 

 

Louisa is pacing the floor of their room again.

“Oh God, that was—that was awful, wasn’t it. Your mum hates me. And they know, they totally know. Everything. D’you think she can tell I tried E at Maxi’s party that one time? It was just once, I swear, but my mum is weird about drugs and—”

“Lou,” Harry says, in her calm, assuring tone. “You were wonderful. My mum loves you already, I can tell. And as for your other concerns, you were...more than convincing.” And she picks at the threading on her childhood quilt.

Louisa whips her head around. “You’re mad, aren't you.”

“No. ’M not mad,” says Harry, sighing back into the pillows ( _Lord of the Rings_ pillows. She’d been a geeky kid once with a giant crush on Galadriel.)

“Yes you are, you’re mad at me,” Louisa whines, looking up at the ceiling and stamping her foot a bit (She’d been raised on _Clueless_ and _Legally Blonde_ and _Sex and the City_. Foot-stomping was not an uncommon tactic.) “Well, I’m sorry, okay? I know we said we’d tell them while we’re here, but I’m just—I’m not ready yet, okay? I can’t just—I can’t just be like you, Harry, I can’t just say, ‘Hey mum, guess what? I really like _tits_ , all right, buh-bye now! It’s not—”

"Louisa," Harry says. Just that. “Louisa.”

“What.”

“I am not mad.”

Louisa’s whole body deflates. “You’re not?”

“I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Harry sighs. “I’m just—I’m tired, that’s all,” and she heaves out a long, slow breath, strands of her tight-curled fringe lifting off her forehead from the gust of air. Louisa stops her pacing for a moment, stops because she likes the way Harry looks with her lips all puckered up like that, perfect pink crescents one on top of the other.

Louisa’s startled when she realizes Harry’s grinning at her, lips curling over sparkly teeth in a lecherous smirk. She’s been staring a bit too long, then.

“Louisa,” Harry implores, “d’you mind telling me a bit more about these so-called _tits_ you so enjoy?”

“I—” Louisa blushes. “Well, I—” but then Harriet’s reaching out a foot to wrap around the back of Louisa’s calf, and then Lou is tumbling onto the ancient twin-sized bed and right onto Harry’s chest, breaking her fall with the palms of her hands, which land—oh. Which land there.

“Were _these_ what you were referring to?” Harry asks, all faux-innocent and cheesy, and Lou has to laugh at it all, which feels wiggly and vibrate-y with another body pressed into her.

“You’re so corny, you know that? Like we’re in a porno or something, I mean...”

“Is this what they do in pornos?” Harry wants to know, and then she wraps her arms tight around Louisa’s back and turns them over until she's on top. Lou lies beneath her, a flush already beginning to spread up her smooth cheekbones, and Harry’s legs are between Lou’s legs and her tits are heaving with heavy breaths and—

“Turn out the light,” says Louisa (whispers, all of a sudden) and Harry claps her hands.

Silence.

“Oh, it’s one of those...clappy ones.”

“Clappers, yeah.”

“...It’s dark, my eyes haven’t adjusted. Are you— _hh_!"

(Harry shoves a hand up Louisa’s shirt (pajamas, silk pajamas, because she’s a lipstick lesbian) and she’s not wearing a bra because _wearing a bra to bed stunts breast growth, Harriet, and God knows mine need as much help as they can get_.)

“Your hands are cold.”

“Your boobs are warm.”

“That’s because— _ah_!”

Harry slides a thumb over Louisa’s nipple, small and round and taut already (cold hands, it’s true) and rubs it slightly. Moves her hand until she’s got the point between her thumb and forefinger, and twitches gently.

“Your nails are short.”

“I’m a dyke, remember?”

"I never said— _oh_!”

Harry rucks Lou’s shirt up to her collarbone, cold air sifts across her chest and then Harry’s got a nipple in her mouth, warm and wet and sudden, tongue flicking out to tease the nub, teeth scraping.

“...”

A suckling noise breaks off. “Quiet, Lou?”

“Well, if you’d like me to talk, I can summarize _Kissing Jessica Stein_ for you again. We open on a woman called Jessica, whose life lately has seemed somewhat— _Harriet_!"

Harry’s hand slips beneath Lou’s silk pants, tugs aside the lace _thing_ she’s got on underneath (seriously, a lipstick lesbian), one finger pressing once against her clit. That’s all.

“Harriet Styes, I swear to God if you don’t—”

“Sshh, shut up, okay?”

“Fine, if that’s—the way—if that’s—”

Louisa comes.

 

 

Breakfast isn’t a party, per se, but it certainly is awkward.

Harry’s mum straightens out the paper as she eats, shovels in a bite of waffle and swallows at her leisure.

“You know, Harry,” she begins, and Harry doesn’t answer because she knows this is one of those times where her mum isn’t really looking for an answer. “I’ve been thinking we ought to redo that old room of yours.”

“Oh?” says Harry nonchalantly as she gulps down another bite of Wheat Thins (Louisa is looking at her with wide eyes over the top of the latest _Vogue_ , which she’s holding upside down.

“Mmhm,” says Harry’s mum, and maybe it should tip Harry off when she sees her flick a glance to Mrs. Tomlinson (who’s trying not to grin behind _The Guardian_.)

“Why’s that?” Harry asks, heart pounding.

“Because,” sighs Mrs. Styles, as she gets up to rinse her plate in the sink and stuff it in the dishwasher. “That bed is _terribly_ creaky, don’t you think?”

It’s Louisa who laughs first.


End file.
